


Stories for the Loved and Lost

by MatchaMochi



Series: Dark Passages [1]
Category: DCU, DCU (Animated), DCU (Comics)
Genre: F/F, M/M, Multi, Reincarnation AU, Soulmates AU, alternate universes au, bruce is an author au, confused males having coffee with puzzled females au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 19:57:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6534313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MatchaMochi/pseuds/MatchaMochi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first chapter leads Clark to another, and another. He turns the pages, eating the words up hungrily and feeling them, pored over the story as if he was reading someone’s personal diary. And the thing was, he knows it, he knows this story. He remembers flashes of memory that aren’t his, thrown in yesterday’s weird dream or last night’s nightmare.</p><p>or in which Bruce is an author and Clark is his fanboy,</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stories for the Loved and Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Wanted to try my hands on Soulmate Au's and a little more smut... then this happened, hmmm anyway i wanted to credit this idea to silentpeaches since i took the idea for the au from there, hope you'll like this one!

His hand shakes, clutching the throbbing beating of his heart. Outside, the storm rages on and he flinches as lightning flashes in through his windows. He looks to the side where his study table was, pacing over to it and quickly grabbing a notebook and a pen before going back to his bed.

Then, he starts to write.

-

-

-

BLOOD AND PAPER

 

‘ _They held each other tight, locked in an embrace hot with love and want. His lover moaned, breathless as he feels the pulsing, burning, - ‘_

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.”

Clark shuts the book abruptly, shoving it down one of his many other papers, stray stationaries and receipts under his table. His face colours, an involuntary red tint painting the tips of his ears.

“ _Really,”_

Lois lane has been called a lie detector one to many times to be fooled, she shoots him a suspicious look before straightening up from where she was lounging around on his bed. She raises her eyebrows before grinning and stalking up to him slowly, “So you wouldn’t mind if I….” stood next to Clark from where he has that ridiculous sweater on from his mom for the winter, she slowly places her hand on the study table where he was sitting on. “ _Take it!”_ and she plunges in, immediately grabbing the thick book squeezed between all the crumpled papers,

“No- _Lois,”_

She stuck her tongue out and him before grinning and bouncing back on the bed with the book held out. “Come on, _Lois,”_ he whines out, fixing his crooked glasses with shaky fingers, “It’s- it’s just,” she doesn’t hear him, hushing him with a thrown pillow that smacks his face and knocks out his glasses, while flipping through the pages and halting at where her best friend had been so engrossed on. She giggles, “Oh my,”

“Lois!”

“Wait, let me get this straight. Or not, you know ‘cause this is _so_ not,”

“I really like the story- “

“Uhuh, that’s why you’ve been staring at the same page for half an hour,”

“Well- “

“ _Not a word is spoken, no skin wasted. They speak through the gentle caress of touch and the terrains of hard worn scars, smooth skin are explored with bated breaths- “_ Lois says it out loud, exaggeratingly passionate while Clark wails beside her as he tries to snatch away the book from her hands, “ _-but there is also pain deep within-_ Oh Clark come on,” he lands a heavy pillow on her face and she shrieks while he laughs finally grabbing the book from her grip, “ _No.”_

He gingerly laid the book back down his table, pouting at Lois, “That wasn’t really nice,”

She blows a raspberry at him in reply, smiling softly when she sees him frowning, “I’m not judging Clark, its hard being a farm boy in a closet, I get that.” then, she grins at him wolfishly, “Though I’m hardly surprised Bruce Wayne’s _Lovelight_ is one of your frequent companions in your solo masturbation sessions- “

“Hey!”

She continues pretending not to hear Clark huff and his indignant glare, “I mean the way he writes it! Gold help me, as if he could actually _feel_ it, not to mention the sex scenes- “

Clark needs to take a second plugging in his ears from Lois’s rant about the intricate ways of gay copulation while he wonders about how things had made it like this.

 He thinks about the books crammed in his shelf, lined out and arranged randomly to any untrained eye. Behind those books, where he knows there are a series of more books, some thick, thin, hard covered, or just some papers he’d printed when the local bookstore doesn’t provide the book he’d seen in the internet. Those are particularly cared for, he’d bind them, spending hours beside the printer overnight as he promises the shopkeeper an extra hour of worktime in the stationary store, in turn of pirating a book out of the web.

 _Those_ books are carefully arranged, linear. With the ones being written first starting at the right to the latest at the left, if there isn’t space left, he’d continue at another shelf at the other side of his room. He has a lot of shelves. He also has a lot of stars and planets. Those are hung up at the ceiling, glows whenever he turns the light off to sleep. 

His fascination for the extra-terrestrial is often tied to his obsession in the books he cares for ever since the first one came out; all being written by the same man: Bruce Wayne.

And the reason was, however hard he tries to push it away and forget them, his _dreams_.

-

-

The day he has his hands on the first ever published book by Bruce Wayne was in middle school. You could hardly miss it, its advertised in every bookstore within a mile radius from New York, the reviews and praises pasted all over the internet were insurmountable, one of the comments being, ‘ _Youngest Author to produce a Masterpiece’_ or ‘ _Teen writer remakes Romeo and Juliet like no other,’_.

The only bookstore in town, even if it was small and enclosed, didn’t escape the hype of the Wayne’s glory. Its tiny glass walls covered with the premier of, ‘ _Blood and Paper’_ , small pocket sized ones, big and hard covered, all were there. Its cover was different in its variety but it always had the same theme; a dark cave with a small sliver of light.

Clark was enraptured before he even read the plot at the back. It was winter and the wind was particularly vicious this time of the year, yet as a sudden breeze blows right at him taking his woollen cap away he doesn’t give it a second glance. He stands in front of the bookshop, at the glass in front covered with the posters of the new bestseller, his eyes wide and his skin freezing. His hair is messy and dotted with snowflakes so he shakes it off and tries to tidy up as he enters the shop. A light tinkle greets him when he opens the door, and he sighs in relieve as the heat spreads to him warmly from the heaters at the walls.

He goes straight to the latest bestsellers and grabs the nearest book, though the only book lining up the row of shelves were the same ones. He flips it through, reads the back, starts to read the first passage but immediately stopped.

He feels the blood rushing in his ears, and his hands tremble. He turns around and settles his back at an unoccupied corner where one could barely see him. He takes off his gloves by biting them and shoving them in his pockets of his winter jacket. Its mid-afternoon outside and Clarks makes a note to himself that the store closes by nine, (and that the only money he has is now currently sitting in his Pa’s room from where it will be kept until next Monday for getting in a fight at school yesterday, damn.)

He curls up in that one corner of the bookstore, the only other accompanying him being the owner itself, Old Jim whose natural state of being would be either talking really softly, snoring quietly or muttering ominously. Now its no.2, his greyed head tilted to the side in heavy sleep, the store only ever had visitors when the weather seems to invite more inside. This time, the winds howled and the clouds gather, anyone thinking of taking a trip to the bookstore quickly changes their mind and decides on another day.

And so he starts to read.

-

-

_‘Bruce Wayne was born in New York in 1998. This is his first published book that has launched him right into the first rank of notable historical writers. Though he had only finished school this year, the efforts taken for research to all of the historical events written are admirable. He often visited the Wayne Orphanage owned by his family in the outskirts of Britain and when questioned if he had his stroke of inspiration from these various trips, his only answer is, ‘It’s a secret.’_

_He is the youngest author to have won both the Scott O’Dell Award and the Walter Scott Prize for Historical Fiction.’_

Clark stares at the picture pasted on top of the biography. Brushes his fingers at the sharp, defined jaw and high cheekbones, he imagines the young man to already have a string of admirers trailing along behind him. His hair is dark, jet-black, though his eyes shined, blue and hypnotic.

The picture is black and white. He _knows_ what he imagined was true though, because it was not imagination, it was a _memory._

“Almost nine now, Kent. Don’t you have your Ma waiting for you back home?”

He snaps his head up, face to face with Old Jim’s sleepy frown. He scrambles up, quickly wiping away his moist eyes and going red when he sees the old man lifting an eyebrow in return. He places the book carefully, apologising to the shop owner as he does so and dashes out as fast as he could.

His cheeks, wet from the tears he couldn’t control, burns his skin as he walks out into a blizzard.

-

-

_-For your lost and loved ones-_

Written on the first page, right before the first chapter. The acknowledgements at the back are a lot, lists of names and places he does not know, and a special thanks to an ‘Alfred Pennyworth’ his editor for believing in his dreams. And the way he phrases it, using ‘ _your’_ instead of ‘ _my’_ , as if he wanted to convey it for someone, the readers? But wouldn’t that be too private?

The first chapter leads Clark to another, and another. He turns the pages, eating the words up hungrily and _feeling_ them, pored over the story as if he was reading someone’s personal diary. And the thing was, he _knows it_ , he knows this story. He remembers flashes of memory that aren’t his, thrown in yesterday’s weird dream or last night’s nightmare.

He remembers the story and it goes like this; he was Jonathan and the author was Benjamin.

-

-

_“Run.” I said._

_“Run and do not turn back.”_

_“No,” he sobbed and shook. Held on to my arms, his grip tight, and he whimpered when I shoved him away, glared at him, but he knew it’s not true, I see it in the way his hands trembled and he_ knew _it’s not true._

_“Jon, they know. You know it is far too late for me. Take the horses. GO!”_

_“Ben, they will burn you. I will not run away like a coward while yo- “_

_I punched him before he could say anything else, before he can destroy me anymore than he already did.  The hit threw him down to the ground, made him cough out blood and spit out a tooth. I felt the sting at my knuckles as it started to bruise. Outside, the raucous sounds of chaos come ever closer for our demise._

_“Go Jonathan.” I turned away from him, my shoulders taut “Just go.”_

_“I’ll come back for you, I promise.”_

_The face that met my beloved mistake as I looked back is scarred with anger and hatred, for it is an illusion I must make to complete this most crucial charade,_

_” NOW!”_

_And he did._

_-_

_-_

_‘Blood and Paper’_ is only a book of tragedy and romance. Not that unusual, as Clark would have liked. He loves reading about science fiction, the world outside of his, the _universe._

It follows the protagonist, Benjamin, living the life of a son whose father runs a well renowned trading business. And as things will ultimately happen in stories, everything changes when he meets a servant boy and falls in love.

By that, Clark pauses. He pauses and tries to remember, the feeling etched inside, the unknown reason why his chest ached every time he reads about how they fall into each other, how they savoured each other’s fleeting touch and warm expressions. He wasn’t there, he knows that.

The drama unfolds as Benjamin’s father comes into play, a man so sure that his son, the next successor would be as perfect as him and his father before him, a man whose history consisted of him walking out of a room with his wife laid covered with bruises.

Other characters joined in, some as detestable as the father, the rest quiet and supportive. Maybe this was what had attracted all the readers, how it all seemed so _real._ And then there was Jonathan and Benjamin. There was always them. Only ever them.

The moment they are caught and Jonathan runs away to save his own life, Clark has never hated a person as he hated Jonathan in his life. His nails dig into the paper as he reads the chapter of Benjamin’s death.

Burn to a stake, sticks bundled up gathered at his feet. Faggot they called him, a heretic, a waste, a disappointment. Benjamin screams in his death, a cry of anger, despair and unfairness. He feels the skin melting off his face, the stench of his own flesh cooked for nothing but entertainment. He burns and the face he remembers after he lets out a last pained breath was only ever Jonathan.

He cries for someone he doesn’t even know, but it hurts, it hurts because he remembers how it goes after the words ‘ _-fin- ‘_ typed on the last page. Jonathan had come back in hopes of rescuing his lover only to see him burn. He had walked down the river, like a man possessed, rocks tied at his feet, and drowned himself.

Clark remembers the nightmare that had woken him when he was ten, crying and bawling, the freezing, suffocating cold of rushing water choking his throat. He does not regret it though, because he also remembers the feeling of relief flooding over him as darkness crept at the edges of his vision. Jonathan had been fighting for so long; his only regret was that he didn’t have the chance to hold his lovers hand again.

-

-

The next day, he begs his father for his money, and the same night he rushes to the bookstore to buy the book. When he arrives home, he stares at the cover, thinks of fire, and hidden letters where Benjamin never knew Jonathan had kept. Fleeting love letters of a silly fancy.

He sneaks in his mother’s laptop, and searches for the author. Needing to know more, but the social media offers as little as the summarised biography behind the pages of his book. He sighs and rubs his glasses at his sleeve.

Nothing to do but wait for the next book. While Clark falls asleep on top of the sofa, laptop humming on his lap, he dreams again. This time of a childhood memory he knew had never occurred.

-

-

-

THE BOY FROM THE SKY

 

He had not thought for once that it was ever going to be easy.

Especially after he tells his parents that no, he won’t be taking over the company, he is going to be a writer and he is going to be living alone in Manhattan for the rest of his life. Surprisingly, they took it quite well. He had an inkling that his mother had already known that his reckless and stubborn behaviour would have lead him to this.

She had smiled at him softly, hugged him and told him that she loves him regardless of what he chose for his future. His father though, was silent. They don’t talk, and when he calls one of the nearest publishing houses to give out his first story, his father pats him hesitantly at the back and says, “ _If you’re sure.”_

That. That had been both surprising and easy.

After he meets Alfred, everything seems to fall apart.

At eighteen, he sends out his first manuscript to his soon to be full time editor.  He recalls feeling anxious that he had told too much in the bunch of papers currently gripped by Alfred, when he had typed all those people and words that had somehow flowed from his fingertips. It had been excruciating. Like spilling blood on paper.

‘ _Great potential.’_ Closely followed by, ‘ _but I believe we can still improve on some parts- ‘_

And suddenly it gets _difficult._

The thing was, he knows what his editor was getting at, parts where nothing really happens are there because he wanted it to be _real_ , but realism could only go so far until it suddenly becomes stale and _boring._ Bruce hates it, because to him this wasn’t just a story made up from the recesses of his mind, this was painful, bitter, _dark_ memories and thoughts from a past life he has not known existed ever since he had woken up at one in the morning screaming about how it hurts, and how he swears he feels his skin falling off and sees his bed on fire.

It takes a half a year for him to give in. His phone is soon crammed with the missed phone calls from Pennyworth. Until autumn came and brought his editor with it at his bedroom, face wary and voice quiet.

“I spoke with your mother.” He swallows, “Your dreams, it comes from there doesn’t it?”

Bruce doesn’t reply, he shuffles closer to the edge of his bed, pointedly ignoring the man’s earnest tone, so Alfred continues, “The thing about dreams Mister Wayne,” and he smiles wryly with the next words, “Is that when we interpret it in a way we want it to be, it more often than not, turns into truth.”

“How can you make a lie into truth?”

“By hiding it,”

The boy wonders about that, and the next day he finally picks up the phone as Alfred calls on him again. He tells him that he wants to try, (doesn’t tell him that he wants to try to fix his mistakes in the past, or just rekindle a hope that somewhere, out there, someone will read this and say: Oh.)

His first book comes out in winter, the torrent that comes after that varies from genre to genre, short stories to thick philosophical ones. By his twenty-fifth birthday, his name has already been celebrated as one of the well-renowned authors of this century.

Bruce Wayne doesn’t pay it any mind, he broods and yearns. After that, he writes.

-

-

This now, _this_ was easy. The way his fingers slides over the sleek pads of the keyboard, how the words he wants to convey comes readily in mind, how he turns images he has seen and felt so clearly in heavy sleep jump out as he types it quietly.

He is doing just that, even though Alfred has dragged him once again to the orphanage his family owned, (if only by name,) for a well needed break. He couldn’t stop even if he wants to. The need to put the glimpse of what could have been in words is irresistible ever since he had his first taste on how liberating it was. It felt like writing a letter he had kept for so long, sending it to the recipient _finally,_ a weight off his shoulders he never knew was there.

So when he had spied Barbara Gordon’s laptop sitting innocently at the warden’s desk it took him ten minutes before his lounging on the sofa beside the wooden table, typing steadily at a new worksheet.

“Mister Bruce?”

He snaps his head up, already feeling guilty for using someone else’s possessions before he spots the small figure creeping up from outside the corridor. It takes a little more step inside, tiny ones, and Bruce understands that too, the children only ever gets inside the wardens’ room if they had a problem or, a flip side to that, a praise or an adoption.

He ushers her in, face soft, “Its fine Cassandra, you can come in.” he knows her, just as he knows the other kids running around the huge mansion. The girl though, had always been silent and unassuming, the time he spends together with her are quiet and peaceful, in contrary to the other kids he was forced to ‘play’ with, (more like surrender to their torture,) the other kids being mainly Jason or Stephanie.  _They_ usually run out of battery around noon, before recharging again after dinner.

He spies the time at the computer and he sighs internally in relief, he figured that they must be up in their own bedrooms now, sleeping happily. Cassandra Cain had always stuck fast to Stephanie when they are no one else around, has she come here to find someone else to accompany her?

She walks slowly to him, the toddler dragging a ragged doll with dark red hair at her side. She tilts her head to the side staring at him, “What are you doing?”

Bruce shrugs, smoothing his hands down the sides of the laptop, “Writing a story,”

She perks up at that, and her accent lines in with her excitement as she padded nearer to him, little hands gripping his sleeves, “I- I want to know!”

“The story?”

She nods vigorously, eyes sparkling. Bruce laughs and ruffles her hair fondly, nodding back in assent, “Alright, alright...” he clears his throat and shuffles around the sofa to a more comfortable position. He smiles at her and pats the space beside him. She doesn’t waste anytime climbing on the sofa and pulling his sleeves once more for him to get on with the story.

Bruce shakes his head; it wasn’t even _bedtime_ yet. Children will be a handful, and that wouldn’t just be the end of it. He looks down at her, lacing his hands together at his lap,

“ _Once upon a time, there was a boy who fell from the skies….”_

-

…. _and from the moment he landed on earth he had never thought that he’d ever needed a name._

_He did not have any memory from before he landed or from where he had come from. When he got up from the heated rocks that had brought him down, he was cold and lonely. He did not know where to go or to whom he should talk to. What awaited him are only empty grass plains that stretched on forever and the darkness that seemed to swallow everything._

_He didn’t know how long he had trudged at the wet grass, slick from rain, barefooted and exposed-_

_-_

Bruce froze, looking back at the child’s face, absorbed in his story as always whenever they dragged him up to their cosy bedrooms to spin out one of their fairy tales before bed. ‘ _Better keep this safe then,’_ it simply wouldn’t do if he starts telling children about things over the rating, Alfred will probably butcher him with a knife,

-

 - _except for the shorts that covered him, he had nothing else to shield against the harsh nights’ wind and the damp cold._

_After a long time, trudging over the open valleys, the moon and stars hanging over him, the little boy started to notice that as he goes on, the olive green valley changes. The grass gets thinner, he felt little drops of rain beginning to drop down from around him and soon he can’t see the moon or the stars any longer. The sky is only one deep black canvas spread out over him. The grasses are replaced by damp black soil and sharp little rocks,_

_-_

“Is. Is he alright?”

“Hmm?”

“Those rocks…”

_‘Ah yes, keep it safe for the kids,’_

“His feet are fine. He managed to find a discarded pair of dirty sneakers tucked between two huge rocks,”

-

_Those were there too, large rough rocks, big enough to fit several people. They are littered around the rough sandy terrain. His spirit lifted when he spotted little holes protruding around the large rocks, for at least now he has somewhere to stay and sleep. He headed to the first cave-like entrance near to him, tired and heart heavy with confusion and a sense of abandonment._

_Suddenly, he felt something shift from inside, a fleeting silhouette that emerged out of the dark shadows to only just be another boy, if he were to guess right; they’d be the same age._

_The other boy looked curious as he stared up at him, “Are you lost?” the boy asked._

_He said yes and in reply the other boy, skin as pale as moonlight and eyes as red as blood, offered his hand to him, “My name is Kirk Langstrom,” he didn’t smile, “Nice to meet you.”_

_The boy shook his hand with a timid smile and replied, “Nice to meet you too, I- “he swallowed thickly, “I d-don’t know my name, or where I’m from but- “he looked up, face wary, “Can I stay here awhile?”_

_“Of course,” Kirk told the boy._

_-_

“Is he a vampire?”

“Kirk?”

“Yes.”

“….correct.”

-

_The boy slept in the cave with Kirk, shared the one bed together. As the sun came up the boy saw Kirk standing over him at the bed looking down at him with an expression he didn’t recognise._

_“Hernan.”_

_“Wha-“_

_“That’s your name now.”_

_The boy didn’t object; in truth he quite liked it. He found himself nodding back at Kirk his face lighting up, “Alright.”_

_And this time, the boy gaped as Kirk lifted his lips up to a small smile, walked closer to him,_

_“And you will be my friend.”_

_They spend their days together in that large cave; drank from the small ravine Kirk showed the boy where it flowed through behind the cave. They eat by catching birds and bats, and the boy is happy when Kirk showed him his spare clothes for him._

_During the day, Kirk never came out of his cave so they play together inside, their laughter echoed through the rough walls and pools of light. The boy remembered these vividly, the way the sun spilled over pale skin, how they fall together in tangled limbs and scraped knees, that one moment where Kirk laughed and laughed until there were tears in his eyes and his back shook with it._

_One night, they were sitting over a campfire when Kirk finally confessed to the boy,_

_“I am a vampire,” he said. The boy noticed his teeth flashing in the orange light as he said it and he only nodded and said back, “Alright.” because it_ was.

-

He shifts closer to Cassandra, patting her head softly and looking back at the time, “We have to prepare for dinner now you know,”

She frowns at him, gripping her doll tightly, “But. The, the ending!”

Bruce sighs, “Alright then,”

-

_The boy’s memories started to come back over time. He tripped over a pebble before he picked himself up and clutched his hand at his head. When he met Kirk at the cave, his face is white and his hands trembled._

_“I know you.”_

_Kirk looked back at him, puzzled, “Yes. Of course you do, we’re friends.”_

_“No, I mean. From before.” The boy grabbed Kirks shoulders, looked at him desperately, “We’ve met before!”_

_Kirk frowned at the boy, “I don’t- “but he continued on, “I made a promise from before, I promised to come back for you- and I saw you **burn** ,” his breathing quickened, and the grip he has on Kirk tightened. _

_“Hernan, calm down, what happened- “_

_The boy crowded closer to him, eyes searched his, “Wake up Kirk!”_

_“What?!”_

_Around them everything started to turn vague, started to drip down, like a faded picture._

_-_

_“_ Wake up!”

Bruce snaps his fingers right in front of her face. Cassandra jumps back in surprise, pouting at him when he laughs back at her. She scrambles back up at him, hands at his lap,

“Then?”

He shrugs, “Then they woke up.”

Her frown turns into a full blown glare, “Don’t like it.”

He grins at her before ruffling her hair into a mess and saying, “Go wake up the others now, they’ll be pissy if they found out they’ve missed dinner,” She huffs at him but hops down the sofa, running to the corridor, her hair even more messy by going so fast.

Bruce doesn’t have the time to tell her the whole story; he’d watered it down for her already. For him to talk about the gods and monsters in his dreams would have taken a few hours at best, and a lot of water. He sighs quietly to himself, trying to figure out any story that comes to mind for tonight’s bedtime, (though he usually just does it spontaneously,).

But tonight, he feels that it wouldn’t come as easily as it did before. Maybe it was the sudden quiet realisation, for he had just noticed it after he had told the story of the boy to Cass. Now it seemed to accumulate, all the novels he has written, all those weird visions and dreams he has every night. _All_ of them had always ended badly, whether it was by separation or by late realisation.

It wasn’t just that though, the person in his dreams had something. What was it he said to her? Oh yes, a _promise._ A promise for reunion, or perhaps salvation, Bruce does not know.

He groans, stretching his back from where it had become stiff from sitting too long, and he heads for the kitchen downstairs.

That night, after he’d figured out what to tell them, the children falls asleep with the images of a strong samurai and a fierce warrior seeking for vengeance. He passes by all of their beds, making sure that Dick hasn’t tried to climb the chandelier again.

As he settles in for bed and closes his eyes in pretence for sleep, he prays that tonight would only be sweet ones, as recently the nightmares of a devil with blazing eyes had haunted him ever since he’d published his fifth book. When he starts to fall into slumber, he opens his eyes to a darken chamber, hands tied up at his wrist and a furious god staring down at him.

-

-

-

INJUSTICE

It’s breath-taking, sometimes.

Clark Kent is twenty-seven when he remembers what it felt like to fall. It drops down on him in spring, where he finds himself going out to the park from his suffocating work place. He’s on a bench, his head tilted back and his eyes closed. A warm breeze makes its way down to him, pulling his tie sideways and landing a few leaves from the tree above him that brush on his office shirt.

He holds his breath, and if he tries hard enough he could just remember how it was.

Warmth, just like the sun shining down on his face, a heat that pools into his stomach and makes his cheeks red, it was spring at its peak. Where he’d seen the myriad colours of flowers blooming, a stray bee buzzing from one to another, and how they were covered by the shadows laid out from the huge branches and leaves above them.

How easy it was to close their hands together, bodies gravitating to each other like magnets and how he’d put his open lips on the other, slowly letting them shut. On the eve of spring, they had shared their first kiss and for the very first time they weren’t _scared._

Weather like these reminds him of sunshine and open grass, the innocent laughter of a young boy, the beauty of deep blue eyes staring down at him as the dry leaves under him crunches when he walks closer, swings played and a failed baseball game ending with them sitting, huddled together marvelling at the dark carpet of the night sky dotted with stars.

The heat makes him remember everything, -everything, including the steaming hot blood running down his hands, thick red rivulets dripping off his wrist as he grips the beating flesh in his palm. The course pleas fading out as it is replaced with a painful piercing scream, ‘ _YOU PROMISED- ‘_ but all he hears is the slow ‘ _thump thump’_ as it ploughs on, and finally…. stops.

“Clark?”

He looks up quickly, cricking his neck in the process and he winces while he looks back at Lois walking up to him. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” Her face is concerned when she sat down beside him and passes him a coffee, Clark cupping it carefully and crooning in pleasure when he sniffs the fragrance of caffeine and milk.

He shrugs, sipping the coffee, “It’s nothing.”

“...right.” she doesn’t say anything about it. Everyone has their moments now and then. But she can’t help but worry, ever since he started working with her in the local daily newspaper office after his internship in Michigan, he’d been, _off._ He spends more time outside daydreaming than he is writing articles, he’s quieter and they’d often see him buried deep in another Bruce Wayne book he stashes underneath his work table.

 _This isn’t what he’d thought he’d be doing in ten years,’_ was what Lois had concluded. Clark had loved books but his real passion had been for the _stars._ He had been obsessed with them until he had dragged her out every other weekend to his parents’ farm where he can pull out his precious telescope and babble on about constellations and black holes.

It happened somewhere in Michigan, she can tell. University fees? Not enough credits? She’s not sure but her best friend had returned to his hometown with a weary smile and a weighted back. She was the one who offered him the job, surprised at first to find out that he actually _wanted_ it. Lois was so sure he’d be knee deep in some astronomical what’s-it’s when he came, she’d thought he was just going to visit them awhile to tell them that he wanted to go somewhere else.

But here they are, sitting in the park, listlessly talking about nothing because Clark wouldn’t admit that he’s just _wasting time_ here.

“-and I really think that we could change the sport section a little- “

“Clark.” He freezes as she reaches out holds his hand in hers, squeezing it. Lois doesn’t look at him though. She stares at their joined hands, her mind wondering just when Clark had been able to cover both of her hands with his. When they were kids she swore she’d never seen fingers so tiny before.

He’s looking at her worriedly now, squeezing her hand back, “Is there something wrong?”

She sighs, “You’re not happy here aren’t you?”

He frowns at her, “I don’t- “

But she shakes her head, “No. You have to listen to me Clark.” Lois finally raises her eyes to his, and she says, voice steady, “I have been with you since we were what? Four year olds? I _know_ when something isn’t right. But I also know that- that you never wanted to stay here. Sometimes when I look at you, you’d always look so _lost,_ I don’t know how to say it- like, like you were _searching_ for something,”

Clark breaks out in a quiet chuckle, although his face is pale. He shakes his head and smiles at her awkwardly, “Lois what are you trying to say?”

“What I’m trying to say here, is that, whatever it is you’re searching for, you haven’t found it yet. And you _won’t_ if you just waste your days over here when I _know_ you don’t want that- “he opens his mouth but she snaps at him, “No Clark. Just admit it alright? You’re afraid. And I don’t in heavens know what _for_ but you _are._ ”

They were quiet, for a while. But she continues, relentless, “I’ve got some contacts in New York, magazine companies that’s willing to take you in. One that _might_ grab your interest however is ‘ _The Amazons’_. They have a special slot,” she grins at him, blinking a little, her eyes wet, “and I heard it’s for astronomical study and ‘predictions’, but I think you can work with that.”

She sniffs a little, taking her hands away to dab tissue at her eye, small wet patches form on it, and she mumbles, “It’s just an offer Clark, but- but I think you should start before you regret anything,”

Clark stares at her, open mouthed. He’s shocked, maybe a little annoyed but he’s more surprised than he is angry. Lois had seen his moping, has it been so obvious? He doesn’t want to tell her. She doesn’t need to know that he didn’t pursue his dreams to chase the stars was because of his nightmares.

Those where it tells him that he had _come from_ there, the universe outside, and it had had ended so badly. He doesn’t want to tell her of how he died in so many lifetimes and had killed people in the others. Dead, cold blue eyes had haunted him one too many times for him to look at the stars without reminding him of it.

He feels Lois hands rubbing against his softly while she tries to smiles at him, “Think about it alright?”

And she leaves.

When he got home he tries to wrap his head around the fact that his life is probably just going to be another one of Bruce Wayne’s novels (and as his notoriously famous books go, the word ‘happily ever after’ is duly ignored and replaced with blood and tears,). It’s him doing the stalling; the other had just been waiting for him all this time.

He’s _scared,_ gods was he scared. Lifetimes and promises _he_ had made happened because it had never been fulfilled. It would just be _easier_ for him to stay here, marry a nice girl and have kids. No one to burn to a stake, no one to be hung and killed, _no one_ to love-

His breath hitches, hands shaking as he slowly run it over his head. And that was what had always been the end all wasn’t it? Without Bruce, he is lost.

-

The next morning, he faces Lois, and tells him about his decision. She smiles at him widely, hugging him and kissing him softly at his cheek. Later, she hands him a phone number, one of the magazine companies she’d recommended.

“They’re pretty famous there, often holds stories about woman empowerment and the likes.” She shows him one of the online magazines on her phone and Clark was pleased to see that yes, it _has_ a space geek section. Sweet. Lois laughs at him when she sees his pleased face, “The chief editor, well in _name_ that is. I heard that she always wanders off somewhere for a story leaving someone else in charge,” she laughs before continuing, “anyway, she’s really nice but I can tell she won’t go easy on you,”

“Hah, like _you_ ever go easy on me, what’s her name?”

“Diana Prince.”

-

-

It’s a bit weird, seeing it like this. The moment he steps in the airport the first thing he sees are the merchandise, comics and light-novels scattered around in the form of collectibles, shops and souvenirs.  Clark himself hasn’t really got on with the comics and films but he has a couple of the light-novels. He knew about the Justice Heroes at his hometown when Lois had joked to him about his favourite author collaborating on comic books but he’d had retorted that it wasn’t exactly that unusual.

Bruce Wayne was thirty-two and he’d been writing since he was a teen, surely one could get bored giving out the same old series of novels to the world. But he never did. The books were never the same, Wayne had explored every inch of the genre corners of the bookshelf, from fantasy to science, horror to mundane realism. And no one could deny that it was _good_ , one by one feeding off the space by the bestsellers section. Well, it was only a matter of time until he starts to invade the comics section.

He huffs into a quiet laugh, staring at a glass display case of a Batman and Superman figurine. It’s six in the morning and the toy shop was already filled with curious people straying over all the display cases.

 He wanders off to one of the comics laid back behind the shop, his fingers smoothing over the covers. Clark recognises some, though his memories always come to him distorted and vague. They’d sometimes appear or disappear, like _Wonder woman_ , he knows her. There was an instance where they were both orphans raised by her in the sickly years of the world depression.

Others too, and yes, _Lois_ , though those makes him spiral into this pit of self-doubt since there were times where he’d thought that that’d be together.

His foot halts, fingers hanging over an issue from one of the sleek comic books. ‘ _Injustice: Gods Among Us’_ he feels the blood rushing at his ears, his hand trembling slightly. Something wet and hot drips on his fingers and he sees red-

“Not really my favourite either,”

His breath catches, and he didn’t even know he was holding it. He looks to his side where a woman smiles at him. She has her hands tucked in the deep pockets of her brown trench coat, dark hair tied up in a long pony tail and a pack back at her back. She wasn’t Caucasian, if he knew better maybe she’d be somewhere from the middle-east? He’s not sure. Clark sees no make-up. He only notices he’d been staring at her for quite a while when she raises one of her eyebrows.

“Oh, I- I mean.” He feels his face heating up, “Haven’t read it yet so I can’t really judge.”

She looks surprised as she says, “Oh but Lane said you were one of Bruce’s fan boys so I thought- “

“She said that?!” he is horrified before he frowns and looks at her more closely, “Wait, how do you know Lois?”

She smiles at him again, softly, “Kent right? Let’s talk over there,” and she heads over to the deli in front, not turning back to see if he’d follow her,

Clark glances back at the rack of comics before running to catch up to her.

-

-

“Diana Prince,” he gapes at her and she nods, “Yes, even I didn’t expect to see you here so early. Knew you from the pictures Lane sent me,” oh he and Lois were going to have a _talk,_ he just hopes none of the pictures were embarrassing, “You got here from…” she stares at him, and he finds it a little unnerving when the look she gives his way reminds him of a hawk judging a prey, “Kansas right?”

He rubs the back of his neck slowly, “Y-yeah. I was going to rent an apartment here before contacting you…” after all even if he didn’t get the job here from Diana, Lois had made sure that he wouldn’t come running back home to her. He sips on his coffee quietly, looking up at her, “and you? were you visiting your hometown?”

She laughs, a deep steady sound, ones he’d thought would come from Vikings and their husbands. _Wonder woman._ Yes. Of course, how hadn’t he noticed? She continues shaking her head and smiling up to him, “Oh no my birthplace and my home are two very different things. My home is here with ‘ _The Amazons’_ , but I know what you’re trying to say,” she munches on the croissant at her hands before continuing, “Africa. I was making an article about the wedding ceremonies over there. Was supposed to stay for another couple of days but my photographer couldn’t handle the heat,” she scowls, “He’s in the toilet, apparently now he has an incurable stomach ache.” She shakes her head slowly, sipping some of her coffee and murmuring, “Only you Trevor,”

They spend time talking until it was over seven, discussing politics, media, complaining about taxes and oil. It was nice. He’d thought she’d be stricter, sizing him up or something. But it feels nostalgic, like meeting an old friend. They were joking about culinary tastes, and when he confesses that he usually drowns his coffee in milk and sugar with more than what’s necessary Diana chuckles and says, “Bruce will _hate you_ just for that,”

He freezes, “Bruce?”

She crumples the plastic coffee cup in her hands, aiming for the trash can behind him, “Oh yes, I know a lot of people Kent. Bruce Wayne doesn’t look like it but he usually gets bored at three in the morning. Sometimes we’ll get coffee, black mind you, and stare at pedestrians across the street,”

“You mean, people watching.”

She throws it and smiles triumphantly when it gets in the bin,

“Yes,”

His first thought was: ‘ _Why are there still people at three in the morning,’_ and his second was, ‘ _What. No. This is too fast- ‘_

Her face lights up, suddenly remembering something, “I heard he has his book signing here for that new one,”

Clark blanches, “You mean-”

“ _That_ one yes, I’m surprised he can make people sign it with a straight face but,” she smirks, “then again, when you get to know him maybe it wouldn’t be that surprising really,”

“Wait. Wait, what do you mean _when I get to know him- “_ ‘ _I’m not ready, this is too- ‘_

She looks at him oddly, “Don’t you want to meet him? The signing’s this Friday,”

He bites his lip, looking down. It’s not that he doesn’t _want_ to. God he’s been craving it ever since he stepped off the aeroplane. He was so fucking _near_ but after that, what? In that far off past where there were lifetimes where they never meet has it really been much better in where they die together? In this far off future where they could suffer would it be worth it?

He doesn’t know.

“Are you coming too?” he asks, and Diana smiles.

-

-

-

DARK PAINTINGS

There were going to make a movie out of it, as ridiculous as it sounds. Bruce, for one, thinks its bullshit.

“I _love_ that office scene Bruce! Broad daylight, glass walls, him bent over the table and the two of them completely naked and _fucki- “_

He frowns at her before snorting and staring back at the manuscript in his hands, “I’m just curious in how they’re going to pull that off in real life Selina,” _Jesus,_ how _did_ they pulled that off? They were what? Fifty storeys up? A foot near the window? Who knew life threatening situations makes him feel horny, huh.

Selina laid out languidly on the couch he was on, gave off a hacking laugh. He grunts in annoyance when she pushes her feet at his lap, “Comes out next month right? Do you prefer Saturdays or Sundays?” she has her hands busy with the muffins spread out on the coffee table near them. Her hair was tied in a bun, with a black yoga pants and a t-shirt dressed down on her as she munches on one of the chocolate muffin. Bruce is sorting through the bunch of papers Alfred had dumped on him with a firm glare and a, “ _Not quite there yet Mister Wayne,”_ , his hair a muss and his face pale, he has a thin blanket over his shoulders. He also has a cold. He sneezes.

“I hate the cinema Selina.” he sniffed.

She snorts waving her hands dismissively, “Ivy and Harley can drag you out, _Brucie,_ I’m not worried. If they’re not free, I can always call the kids- “

“Selina!” he grins at her, “they’ll be scarred for _life,”_

She chuckles, sitting upright as she takes a cup of coffee from the table, murmuring, “and you sure love torturing them.” He shuffles on with the papers, murmuring ominously over a passage or cursing when he finds one of Alfred’s comments. Selina looks around the penthouse, her eyes straying over the red and blues of the patterned walls and curtains. Sunlight washes over the portraits and pictures arranged over one of the wall and its tables.

She sees his family, in a skiing holiday in Vienna, another one but in the same background shows kicking and smiling children with him in the middle of all the chaos, grinning softly in spite of having three boys and a girl hanging at his hands and feet. A picture of the orphanage where she had also ended up and befriended him and the other girls, stood in the centre, where they had everyone standing still for a formal picture to be taken. She laughs inwardly as she remembers how long it took to make Billy sit _still._

Five years with Bruce Wayne and she still doesn’t have a clue when he’s going to stop writing.

“Bruce,”

He hums back, not really minding her. She shrugs, “Don’t you ever want to settle down?” Bruce straightens up at that, staring at her curiously, “No. Do you? Who’s the lucky guy?”

She frowns at him, “My cat. Come on Wayne, you’re not getting any younger,”

He smirks at her, “Not getting any uglier either,” she laughs, “then go _out_ , use that playboy reputation people like to pin up on you,”

He looks back the papers in his hands, “I like to be alone.”

“Yeah that’s why you call people at ass o’clock in the morning, because you ‘ _like to be alone’_ ,” she rolls her eyes. It’s quiet, for a while, before she speaks up again, her voice soft, “You have any ones that got away? Trauma?” she looks down, brushing her hands at the soft edges of the chair, “Harley speaks to me a lot about her ex, maybe I can help y- “

“it’s not like that.” He sighs, “I already know I’ll be alone.”

She gives him a puzzled look, “You can’t be this depressing, what, you have like a premonition or something?”

He looks at her seriously, “Yes, I can see the future for the aliens above have guided me with their wisdom.” She scowls, and he grimaced when she tries to poke his eye,

“ _Spit it out.”_

“Fine.”

He finally places the paper away, facing her and pulling the blanket closer to himself. ‘’Think of it like this; if you send letters after letters to your long distance boyfriend from across the country about how it’s really a bad idea for the both of you to come back together, the boyfriend would have stayed put and you’ll be there. Alone. Because its right.”

She nods, “Right.”

“Yes.”

“And it’s a bad idea because….?”

“Because it is.”

She shakes her head, it’s not her business anyway. Bruce is lonely, even with his friends, the children, his parents, Alfred. She just can’t shake off the image of him writing alone in the corner, when she sometimes spies at him, his face would be closed off, she could feel a sense of desperation with the way he was typing, the set of his shoulders stiff. He needs a break, she thinks. Maybe, from his own head, not his own work.

Her phone buzzes beside her with a new message from Diana, and she blinks when she reads it.

“You feel well enough to do that book signing on Friday?”

She winced when he gives out a throaty cough, putting his papers into a file, “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Oh, Miss Prince will be gracing us with her presence with her newest friend,”

“Could’ve just told me,” he murmurs, sipping a glass of water. She scoffs at him, “You and you’re nocturnal ass? She thinks you’d be asleep by now Bruce,”

He smiles wryly, putting down the glass, “Who’s the friend?”

“A…Clark Kent? Ever heard of him?”

“Never.”

-

-

_‘The blindfolds new. Its smooth satin, tied around his eyes. Same as the ones around his wrists, those are tied to the metal headboard. His breath hitches when a sudden sensation snakes at his belly, rough skin slowly smoothing over the naked plains of his body to his neck._

_“Gorgeous.”_

_A whisper and a hot breath brushing the tip of his ears. He gasps, feeling a wet lick at his collarbone, kisses peppered at his nape. “So fucking beautiful,” He feels his cock getting hard just by the rough, deep tone of his voice, and he whines when the touch leaves him._

_It returns with a soft kiss at his cheek and a quick apology. And he surges up for a kiss, missing at first before he laughs and tries again. This time it’s hard and messy. Sloppy and perfect, their teeth clashing. They still have their mouth locked together when he feels a cool wet sensation, he whimpers as he feels the hot flesh pushing through his entrance._

_His hands tremble, pulling on his restraints. He bites the others lip, grinning when he feels the indignant huff. His cock is hard, and he begs for the other to just fuck him already. And he does, hard and fast, the bed shaking with the brutal movements. He screams his lovers name as it hits his prostrate, and he wants so bad to touch his own. He feels cool hands kneading his ass and he moans, and begs to be touched._

_The other comes with a low groan, shuddering and gasping before kissing his panting mouth, his cock still hard._

_“Please,” he says but his reply is a lick on his nose and a low, soft, “No.”_

_He almost bites his tongue when the rubber slides at his erected cock, makes him squirm and makes the tears prickle out from his eyes. The cock ring is followed by fingers closing over his heated cock. He knows there’s a smirk painted on the others face, as he whispers,_

_“Now,” ‘_

_-_

Kane stared at him in horror, “ _Cock rings,_ have you even _tried_ them Bruce?” she shakes her head slowly when he shrugs, “Was planning to,” he places back the mug of coffee at the table he and Katherine were at, sniffing a little. His cold hasn’t really been bothering him, maybe tomorrow he could go through that book signing after all.

She frowns at the book, placing it back down. The cover a broken mirror with the title ‘ _Dark Paintings’_ at the front.

“So,” he gestures at the book, “What do you think about that?”

She sighs before answering, folding her hands together, “Okay first, before I say anything. Are you asking me because I have no interest in men or because I always trash on your novels?”

“Latter,”

“Then I’d say this is really colourful, and…wet.”

“…. That’s it? No, ‘The fuck is this shit?’ or “My grandma can write better porn!’”

She smiles thinly at him, brows furrowing, “Well, if the ending is bad, again, then maybe that hate mail will be a little late than normal.” He nods, partially satisfied with her answer.

Some of them asks him why he does this. Katherine Kane had been one of his notorious haters ever since he wrote _Blood and Paper_ , but he finds himself amused by her complaints, agreed to some of them, and laughed every time she scowls at him when he asks her about her thoughts on the last novel. It’s like hearing someone rant about the unfairness of life. Vaguely satisfying.

They stare outside of the busy coffee shop for a while, New York on its busy Monday mornings. Usually by now Bruce would have been happily in bed but Kate was only free at this hour, though he feels that she only wanted to spite him because of that.

“Were they separated?” Kane was staring at the book, fingers idly brushing at the cover.

He answers her, looking away, “Yes.”

She sighs, her hand reaching out for her coffee, “You ever thought of a happy ending Bruce? Running off to the sunset? Married together in a nice house? Anything?”

“It doesn’t work like that,”

She stares outside, her eyes already far, far, away from here. She winces, as if relieving a painful memory,” Yeah. I know. Doesn’t hurt to dream you know,”

“It hurts a lot actually,” he goes quiet before speaking up again, “You ever thought about soulmates?”

“What?”

“Soulmates,” he turns to her bewildered face, his own serious. She squints at him, not believing that the cynical Bruce Wayne would want to talk about soulmates of all things, “That bit about destiny, fate and shit? Yeah why?”

“What if you had yours but you’d end up like one of my novels?”

She hissed, frowning at him and rubbing the back of her neck, “Alright now I know why you asked.”

What would she do? One of them would probably be dead or they’d have to go away for various inexplicable hard worn reasons of Life. But they’d had that one moment where they can just _hold_ each other, wont that be nice? She leans back, sipping her coffee a little before replying,

“I’d tell her everything. We’d fuck and cuddle. And what comes after will come.”

“Just that?”

“Just that. And no,” she scowls at his puzzled face, “I’m not just giving up on her because it’ll be easier, it won’t be fair for her and it won’t be fair for _me_. Bad endings will come but like hell am I not getting the best parts of the story even if it’ll lead me to damnation.”

He is silent, staring out before he looks at her and smiles, “Thank you.”

She scoffs at him, but he can also see the understanding lined in her eyes, “For what? Mail comes on Monday when I’m finished reading another one of your bad endings Wayne,”

He nods at her before getting up,

“Looking forward to it. “

-

-

-

The next morning, Clark wakes up to a view of the high buildings and the busy racket of New York. The sunshine hits his face and he thinks about the glow in deep, piercing, blue eyes.

-

That afternoon, Bruce opens the book cover of a fan’s copy to see something written on the front page:

_“I’m sorry I took so long.”_

And finally, their story begins.

_-fin-_

**Author's Note:**

> well, my grandma could probs write better porn, man do i suck at it, (no pun intended) well now, Blood and Paper was from me researching about wherein the word 'faggot' had come from since i am clueless to the english language and am very asian, The boy from the sky is just me appreciating that hernan was really the one who pulled kirk out of his cave, Injustice, well i think you'd know why, Clark could never let that go really. and finally, Dark Paintings, hmmm... think 50 shades of grey but with more consent and aftercare. 
> 
> anyway check out silentpeaches soulmate au ideas here: http://silentpeaches.tumblr.com/post/125291322610/soulmate-au-story-ideas its very lovely,  
> Comments and opinions are appreciated!! ^^


End file.
